Trina, Interrupted
by TheScarletOctopus
Summary: In the wake of a suicide attempt, Trina is diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and institutionalized.  As she struggles to escape the pit of despair, her friends begin to regret their past treatment of her.
1. Over the Edge

**I may or may not continue this, depending upon reader response. It's a bit out of my usual line (no apocalyptic crises, aliens, superpowers, etc.), but I decided to stretch myself, for two reasons: first, as an homage to one of my favorite (sadly unfinished) fanfics, iWill Always Love You by StoryTeller125, which also deals with mental illness; and second, as a tribute to Daniella Monet. She's easily the best actress among the **_**Victorious**_** girls, yet the character of Trina is virtually ignored by the show's writers, except for when they need a convenient butt-monkey. This is just my attempt to envision the result if Trina were given a storyline worthy of Daniella's talents.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

It was on a beautiful spring day that Trina Vega decided to kill herself. The unseasonable warmth had produced a flurry of short shorts, sandals, and laughing picnic lunches on the grass outside Hollywood Arts. André leaned against a wall, strumming his guitar, while Tori rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and sighed with contentment; Cat had dusted off her Jupiter Boots, and was currently in serious danger of reaching orbit; even Jade, wonder of wonders, was smiling, however much she tried to hide it when anyone looked her way.

If anyone noticed Trina, sitting by herself on the sidewalk, it was only to wonder why she apparently refused to take her hand out of her purse. No one knew that her fingers were crumpling, over and over again, the letter she had just received from a low-level executive at Bluebonnet Records, the recipient of her latest demo tape. It was brief and to the point:

"Word of advice, kiddo. Give up singing and find a career more suited to your talents. Like dishwashing, say, or janitorial work."

She didn't mind rejection in and of itself – not by this point. Her ego might be dangerously fragile, but it had been toughened by a seemingly endless string of failures. No – it was the casual cruelty of the letter's wording that broke her. She couldn't sing? So be it. But to dismiss her as a _person_…

The sheet of paper was now little more than pulp, and her fingers were beginning to ache from the repetitive motion, but she couldn't bring herself to stop. Her mind was racing madly, swinging between the extremes of thought and emotion like an out-of-control metronome:

_Talk to your friends, they'll help you through this. You __**have**__ no friends – everyone hates you. You can make them love you. You should force them to suffer. You're going to be a star. You're nothing but garbage._

"Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!" she cried aloud. A few puzzled heads swung her way, and she winced with embarrassment.

_Control, control, have to get control. Have to play the part._ She forced herself to stand and wandered over to the little clump of people around her sister.

"Hey, Tori. Tori's friends. Check out my new Fezzini boots! Got 'em on sale for…"

"Reality check, Vega. _Nobody cares_," snapped Jade.

"Hey, lay off her," Tori cut in.

Now the still bouncing Cat spoke: "You should be nicer, Jade! It's not Trina's fault she's so shallow and materialistic!"

There was a moment of stunned silence. As so often, it was broken by Rex: "I didn't even know Miss Ditzy there could _pronounce_ 'materialistic'!"

"That's it, mister. Into the backpack for you," and Robbie zipped his profanely protesting puppet away.

Jade studied Trina for a moment. "On second thought, I think you made a really smart purchase there."

"You do?" A momentary warmth tingled in Trina's veins.

"Yep. Those boots will draw everyone's attention away from your face." She snickered.

Beck's face darkened. "Jade. You're going too far."

"No," Trina whispered. "No. She's right."

And at that moment, the metronome stopped its swinging. One thought lodged itself in Trina's consciousness, drowning out the voices of her squabbling friends, drowning out all her own attempts to quiet her mind down, to talk herself back from the edge.

_Die._

_Die now._

_You ugly, stupid cow. They'll only love you when you're gone – nobody speaks ill of the dead._

_Give them what they want._

She turned and wandered away in the approximate direction of the student parking lot, dazed, unseeing. Tori detached herself from André and hurried after her, past Jade and Beck, who were now exchanging screams.

Trina barely felt her sister's hand on her shoulder, but stopped anyway. "What? What do you want?"

"Look, Trin, I've known you all my life. I can tell when something's really wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. Just…go back to your friends."

"Not until I'm sure you're okay."

For the first time, Trina turned to look her sister in the eye. "I'll be okay. By the end of the day, _everything _will be okay."

The words should have been reassuring. But there was a strange quality to Trina's voice – a mixture of emptiness and bitter anger – that set off alarm bells in Tori's mind.

The elder Vega slid behind the wheel of her Pontiac and drove away. Tori stared after her, thought a moment, then came to a quick decision.

"Hey, 'Dré," she said when she had returned, "could you give me a lift home?"

"You're going to skip the rest of the day?" said André, his brow furrowed. "That isn't like you, _muchacha_."

"I know, but…please. Just this once." She laid a hand on his arm; her eyes pleaded silently. And André Harris, touched by Tori's obvious anxiety, spoke the words that, though neither of them yet knew it, would save Trina Vega's life that day:

"Sure, babe. I'll take you home."


	2. A las puertas del cielo

**Many thanks to all those who've encouraged me to continue.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

This was a new feeling, at once intoxicating and terrible. Trina was no longer the master of her own movements – it was as if dozens of invisible hands were snatching at her, pulling her toward the razor blade on the bathroom counter.

Now that she was faced with the moment of decision, firecrackers of argument exploded in her head once again. _Do it. Don't do it. Cut. Back away. Hurt, bleed, hurt, HURT…_

Desperate to stop the shouting within her, she seized the razor and drew it in a straight line across her left wrist. There was a moment of unspeakable pain, but it swiftly subsided to a dull, almost unnoticeable ache as bright rivulets of blood ran down her forearm. Convinced now that she was doing the right thing – the only thing she could do – she slashed her right wrist in turn, then lay down in the bathtub and closed her eyes.

_So nice. So quiet. No more shouting, at long last. And now they'll all love me, and cry for me, and miss me. Even Jade. And she's already got plenty of black to wear to my funeral…_

"Thanks for coming up with me, 'Dré."

"Hey, no problem. What do you think's going on with your sister?"

_Oh, no. Not more voices. Wait…_those _voices aren't in my head – they're outside the bathroom door. Who…oh, forget it…_

"I just have this…feeling. I can't put my finger on it, but something about the way she was acting seemed…AAH! NO!"

_Oh, God. I've never heard a scream that loud before in my life. Gotta be Tori. And people say _I'm_ a drama queen…_

"Hurry! Call 911!"

_911? Is somebody in trouble? Oh, I guess she means me. But I'm doing fine – really, I am. Just need to get some sleep…_

"Stay with me, Trina! God _dammit, _don't you leave me!"

_No, stop trying to bandage me up. Just let me __**be!**_

But the blood loss had drained Trina's strength, and her intended protest came out only as a guttural moan.

Tori worked, her anguished tears stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, her sister's blood soaking her fumbling hands. André came bursting in. "The paramedics are on their way, and the dispatcher said she'd get in touch with your dad's patrol car."

Trina had begun to shiver uncontrollably. "She's going into shock," cried Tori. "Get something to warm her up." Sprinting out of the little bathroom once more, André returned momentarily with a quilt and wrapped it around Trina's shuddering form, which suddenly seemed to him terribly small and fragile. Together, he and Tori held Trina close, silently willing their own body heat to be extended to her.

As her blood loss lessened and her internal temperature rose, Trina finally managed words: "Lemme…lemme go…"

"Never. Do you hear me? That's never going to happen!" Tori hugged her fiercely.

And as she felt her sister's love wash over her, clarity returned to Trina's whirling brain. _Merciful God, what have I done? I was going to go away and leave my little sister all alone…_The thought sank in, and Trina began to sob, so violently that her entire body shook. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Please don't hate me! Please!" She wailed like a wounded animal.

Looking down at her elder sister's tear-streaked face, Tori could only think of the lullaby that their paternal grandmother had often sung to her and Trina when they were little and unable to sleep. Not even realizing what she was doing, she began, softly, to sing it herself:

_A las puertas del cielo_

_Venden zapatos_

_Para los angelitos_

_Que andan descalzos_

_Duérmete niña_

_Duérmete niña_

_Duérmete niña_

_Arrύ arrύ_

_At the gates of Heaven,_

_They sell shoes_

_For the little angels_

_Who go barefoot._

_Sleep, little baby,_

_Sleep, little baby,_

_Sleep, little baby,_

_Lullaby, lullaby…_

Though he knew only a few words of Spanish, André quickly caught the simple tune and began to hum a harmony. Trina relaxed visibly; her contorted face softened, and her agonized sobs died away.

They kept singing until their throats were sore. In the distance, after what seemed an eternity, sirens approached. One was an ambulance; the other, a police car, would surely be Tori and Trina's father. _God, how distraught he must be right now_, Tori thought as she stroked her sister's hair.

It wasn't until she heard heavy steps coming up the stairs that she realized she'd left the front door wide open. Two paramedics entered and, with a gentleness born of years of practice, lifted Trina between them onto a stretcher.

The elder Vega whispered something. Tori bent low to hear it.

"Tell everyone…tell everyone I'm sorry…"

Fresh tears in her eyes, Tori kissed Trina's forehead.

"We're going to get you help, _hermana_. I swear to God."


	3. Leap of Faith

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

_This is not my real skin_, Trina thought.

_I've got them all fooled – and who can blame them? It's impossible to see, this thin sheath of transparent armor that's protecting me. They wrapped the bandages on it, they put this damn I.D. bracelet on it – but they never touched my flesh. Not really. And the moment their backs are turned, I'm going to slough it off, like a snake, and SNAP! I'll be gone. Then they'll never catch me, never trap me again…_

"Baby?"

The illusion shattered.

"Trina, baby – are you with us?"

Her father hadn't called her "baby" since she was four years old. Growing up, it had always been Tori for whom those terms of endearment were reserved – Juan Vega wasn't a man given to great shows of outward affection, and (so Trina thought) he had decided early on that the limited store of love he had to give would be better spent on his younger daughter than his older. After all, Tori was the talented one, the beautiful one, the smart one – the one with a future. _La princesa_, Juan nicknamed her – Daddy's little princess.

Trina's resentment at being the unfavorite had simmered in her veins for as long as she could remember. But now, seeing the concern and anguish in her father's deep brown eyes, she began to wonder whether she had judged him too harshly.

"I'm…I'm sorry, _Pap__á_. I kinda drifted off for a second there."

Her mother, sitting on the other side of her, squeezed her hand. "I know it's hard to focus right now, Trina. But the doctor's trying to help you. You need to give her your attention."

_She's treating me like I'm a misbehaving toddler,_ Trina thought, and momentarily bristled. _Why does she think I'm stupid? Can't she see that I'm practically a grown woman now? God, I hate her so much – __**no**__, I'm a wicked, __**wicked**__ daughter, thinking such a thing…_

She shook her head back and forth, hoping against hope that she could dislodge the confused thoughts.

"Trina," said Dr. Marguerite Courtland softly. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"

"I just – I don't understand it," Trina whimpered. "I should be feeling depressed, shouldn't I? I mean, it's depressed people who try to kill…who try to do what I did. But I'm not depressed – at least, not right now."

"Well, how _would_ you describe your feelings right now?"

"It's too hard to put into words. One moment I'm angry, the next I'm afraid, then I think I can take on the whole world…it's like I'm trapped on a roller coaster that never stops." She shuddered.

The psychiatrist nodded. "Trina, we'd like you to stay here for the time being so that we can observe you and make certain of what's going on, but I think I have a pretty good idea already of what's causing your emotional instability. Have you ever heard of borderline personality disorder?"

Trina shook her head, puzzled.

"In a nutshell, it means that you're not certain of who exactly you are. You tend to depend unconsciously on other people to define you – you feel like their approval gives you worth. And when it seems to you that they're denying you that approval, it's as if the rug has been pulled out from under you. Your rational mind is drowned out by your emotions – you act impulsively to try to rectify things. Sufferers from BPD may attempt suicide for any number of reasons other than simple depression – momentary rage at the world, a wish to hurt the people who've hurt them, even the hope that people will love them after they're gone. Does that sound like it describes how you're feeling?"

Trina tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she began to weep silently. _I knew it. I'm a wreck. Broken in the head. Tori and Andr__é__ should have let me die…_

"What do you recommend, Doctor?" asked Juan as he put an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Does she need medicine? Therapy? Just tell me. Whatever it takes, we'll make it happen."

"Well, some BPD sufferers can benefit from psychoactive medication, but it may not be necessary. Right now, we'll have Trina take part in daily therapy sessions as an inpatient, until we're sure she doesn't pose any further risk to herself. Okay, Trina?"

Trina wiped the tears from her face with the back of her bandaged hand and looked up. She wasn't thrilled with the idea of being stuck here and having her mind probed – she had an instinctive distrust of "shrinks" – but this woman seemed different. Marguerite Courtland was a woman of about sixty, her hair still mostly blond though streaked with gray, the wrinkles at the corners of her blue eyes giving her an air of authority earned, not from books and academic degrees, but from hard-earned life experience. It was obvious that the concern she showed for Trina wasn't feigned.

Still, the thought of staying in this hospital for God knows how long was deeply repulsive. "I-I don't really know if…" Trina stuttered.

An image flashed before her mind's eye: her birthweek party. Tori, grinning, joyous, singing to her, only to her:

"You might be crazy, but have I told you lately that I love you, you're the only reason that I'm not afraid to fly…"

She looked at her sister now, sitting beside their mother. Tori's eyes were red; she hadn't slept in two days. Now, feeling Trina's gaze on her, Tori momentarily ceased wringing her hands and gave her sister a thumbs-up.

Tori's mouth moved. No sound came out, but Trina read her lips:

_You can do this._

Turning back to Dr. Courtland, Trina drew a deep breath. "…Okay. If that's what you think is best. I just want to get well. Please."

Dr. Courtland smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."

And so Trina Vega's long journey began.


	4. Fury

**A/N: Question: if I were to become a beta reader, would anyone have any interest in making use of my services? (Also, not to worry - Trina will return next chapter.)**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

"Why are you so _mean_ to everyone?"

If Jade West had a nickel for every time she was asked that – well, she'd have no need to worry about making it as an actress, she'd just buy her own movie studio.

She had, of course, a ready arsenal of snarky replies. "Because they deserve it." "They say honesty is the best policy!" "Life's a battle, and I always want to draw first blood." But as for the _real_ reason – truth be told, even she wasn't altogether sure what that was. Perhaps she had begun simply because she feared to expose any part of her true self to others, and sarcasm was an ideal defense mechanism; but by now, she was so long practiced in the art that it had become all but unconscious, a reflex action.

Only rarely did she worry about the consequences. In the back of her mind she had crafted a scale on which she placed her various friends and acquaintances, depending upon how well or poorly they would react to her bile. Cat, the most fragile, Jade would treat with kid gloves, unless she was in a particularly foul mood. Tori, on the other hand, could give as good as she got, so Jade rarely held back with her. Trina, insofar as Jade cared about her at all, sat at the far end of the scale; her ego was so swelled that nothing could deflate it – or so Jade had believed.

This time, though…as she slammed her locker shut, so fiercely that she nearly dislodged one of the pairs of scissors glued to it, Jade was distinctly uneasy.

No one had seen hide nor hair of Trina or Tori for three days. André, after missing two days, had returned yesterday, uncharacteristically sullen and withdrawn. He was one of the few people Jade genuinely liked, and she had been under the impression that he had a sweet spot for her as well, yet when she had tried to engage him in conversation at lunch, he recoiled from her as sharply as if she were a poisonous snake.

_What the heck is going on?_ She wondered. The normally vibrant Hollywood Arts gossip mill was silent on the topic of the Vega sisters, and nothing could be gotten out of André. All that remained was uncertainty, and Jade _hated_ uncertainty, hated it bitterly.

She adjusted the little pile of textbooks she held in her arms and turned to go to Sikowitz's class, but a sudden buzz of talk among a little clump of students near the front door halted her.

They parted, revealing Tori and André. The younger Vega's usual glamor was completely absent; massive black circles about her eyes gave her the look of a raccoon, while her hair was unwashed and tangled. André had a protective arm around her shoulder and was trying to guide her forward; she obeyed, but without any interest or vigor, as if she were sleepwalking.

Jade approached her cautiously. Automatically her lips began to form an insult, but she caught herself just in time: "H-hey, Vega. Where've you been?"

Tori fixed her with an unblinking stare. Jade winced and took a step back.

"Geez, excuse me for living. What about Trina? Haven't seen her since Monday."

The stare turned to a glower, but Tori still said nothing.

"…If it makes you feel any better, Beck's been giving me nothing but grief about…the stuff I said to her. She didn't take it too hard, did she? I mean, she's not the sort to let a little bit of snark get her down…right?"

Tori's shoulders tensed; her mouth twisted into a snarl. When she spoke at last, her voice was low, hissing, and the words that came out struck Jade like a physical blow.

"You goddamn _bitch_, I hope you burn in _hell_."

After Jade had had a chance to recover from the shock, anger flooded her veins. _How __**dare**__ she_…"Listen, Vega, I don't know _what_ your problem is, but nobody, _nobody_, gets to talk to Jade West like that. Am I making myself clear?"

Tori lashed her left hand across Jade's face. Her nails raked the Goth's pale flesh, drawing blood that ran hotly down Jade's cheeks and fell in heavy drops to the floor around her feet.

Now instinct and adrenaline took over. Jade threw a right hook at Tori, landing it square on her jaw. The Latina reeled, then, with a cry of primal rage, hurled herself bodily onto Jade, bringing both girls crashing to the floor.

They had only a moment to grapple with one another before strong arms pulled them apart – André holding Tori, Beck, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, holding Jade. "What in the world is going on here?" a voice cried from the crowd; Jade groaned inwardly. _Lane. Suspension time_.

She immediately went into excuse mode. "Listen, Lane, Vega started it. I was just defending myself-"

"My sister tried to _kill_ herself because of you! You stinking, cold-hearted, soulless _bitch!_" Tori's profane screams became incoherent, but Jade didn't hear them anyway. The world was spinning about her dizzily, a cold wind howling in her ears. _Trina tried to commit __**suicide? **__Because of __**me?**_

"I…I never meant to…" she stammered helplessly.

"Enough!" Lane bellowed. He was ordinarily a gentle and easy-going man, but now was one of his rare moments of absolute fury, and even Jade found it frightening. "Tori, my office, _now_. Jade, go get yourself cleaned up, and come see me in half an hour. Everybody else – get your butts to class!"

What ensued was less a collective departure than a stampede. Jade and Beck were left alone.

Anxiously, she seized Beck by the shoulders. "Is it true? Is what she said true?"

He sighed. "I don't know, babe. C'mon. I'll take you to the nurse."

As they threaded the empty halls, one thought echoed in Jade's mind, until it drowned out everything else:

_I have to make it right. Oh, God, somehow I have to make it right._


	5. O Brave New World

**A/N: My apologies if this seems a bit rushed – I wanted to post a chapter 5 in the hope that it would cause my previously posted chapter 4, which has inexplicably vanished, to reappear. (Dear Lord, I **_**hate**_** this blasted website sometimes…)**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

This was not at all what Trina had imagined. From the tales of her friends and acquaintances, she had come to envision mental hospitals as wild and wacky places where they put foam rubber cubes on your hands and guys who look eerily like Sheldon from _The Big Bang Theory_ predict the future; but this…The walls were a sedate blue, and patients shuffled to and fro in slippers and bathrobes, exchanging little small talk. Life was structured by a series of small rituals: meals, medication (they had placed her on an antidepressant for the time being), therapy sessions both group and individual, and the occasional evening movie in the common room.

Now, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, both awaiting and dreading her turn to speak, as Dr. Courtland addressed a tall, slender man called Frank who seemed never to stop talking.

"And how was it, seeing your son?"

"He's grown so much I hardly recognized him, which makes me so _mad_ that my ex got custody of him, I know the courts favor mothers in these situations, but a boy needs his father, doesn't he, and nobody realizes that I can be a stable caregiver as long as I'm on my meds, better than _her_, anyway, that witch probably never _feeds_ him…"

"Frank? You're having a manic episode. Calm down and take a deep breath."

"I don't NEED to calm down!" he shouted, making Trina wince. "I'm perfectly fine, and I just need to FINISH what I was saying, stop interrupting me…"

As Frank jumped out of his seat and began to gesture wildly, a muscular orderly who was watching the group made a motion toward him; but Dr. Courtland halted the orderly with a subtle gesture and spoke to Frank in calm, soothing tones. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Frank. Go ahead and finish your story. At once you're down, you can take your lithium and go lie down, okay?"

"I…okay." Frank sat back down. "It just gets me all wound up, you know? I mean, I realize that I have a mental illness, but I'm not a bad person, I could be a decent father if people would give me the chance…I swear to God I could…" He burst into tears. A sudden swell of compassion came over Trina, and she leaned over to hug him, then drew back an instant later. _What the hell am I doing, hugging a total stranger? I really __**have**__ lost my mind, haven't I? _She could sense the psychiatrist studying her abortive gesture; she didn't like it.

When the still weeping Frank had left, it was Trina's turn to share. "So, what's on your mind this morning?" Dr. Courtland asked her.

"Well…promise you won't laugh," she replied anxiously.

"Trina. You should know by now that no one here is going to mock you or judge you for anything you say."

"Right, but…God, it's so lame. I was wishing my parents would bring me more clothes. I got this adorable sweater-skirt combination a couple of weeks ago – 50% off! Would you believe it? – And I haven't had the chance to show it off yet. I bet you guys would think that I look-that _it_ looks cute." Realizing her slip of the tongue, she flushed bright red.

The psychiatrist nodded. "I notice you said 'I look' first. It's important to you that we approve of your appearance, isn't it?"

"Well," Trina said hurriedly, faking a smile, "It's hardly life or death. But a girl's got the right to a little vanity now and then, doesn't she?"

Dr. Courtland didn't reply to this directly, but said instead: "Tell me, how would you feel if someone expressed disapproval of the way you look?"

Trina snorted derisively. "As if I would care. What does Jade know? I've got great taste, and I'm glamorous everywhere I go. Hell, I friggin' _wake up_ looking like a million bucks!" The puzzled stares of the others in the circle made her realize that her voice had risen. "…I mean, I don't worry about what other people think. That's all," she added sheepishly.

"Who's Jade?" the psychiatrist asked.

"Huh?"

"You said 'What does Jade know?' Is she someone who's often critical of you?"

"She's…she's nobody." Trina bristled. "And will you_ please_ stop picking over every little thing I say? _Madre de Dios_, it's so annoying!"

She jumped to her feet. "This is getting me nowhere. Lemme know when you've got something _useful _to say." As she stormed down the hallway to her room, she was surprised that Dr. Courtland made no attempt to call her back.

Back in her room, she turned on the faucet and splashed her face with cold water. The makeup on her image in the mirror began to smudge and drip as she watched.

_Okay, maybe I'm not so glamorous sometimes. Just…kinda ordinary, I guess. Especially compared to Tori._

She began splashing herself again, and didn't stop until the mirror-visage was a clownish mess.

_Yeah. Yeah, that's the __**real **__me. Ordinary. Ugly. Fat. Useless…_

"RRRRAGH!" She kicked the wall with her booted foot, once, twice, then, as the tears began to fall, collapsed onto her cot.

_Please, somebody, tell me I'm beautiful…please…_


	6. Out, Damned Spot

**A/N: If it seems to those following my stories that I'm on a Shakespeare kick at the moment, well…I am. Forgive me. Also, I hope the (attempt at) humor in the beginning of this chapter doesn't put people off. I didn't want this story to get too unremittingly dark; **_**Victorious**_** is a comedy show, after all.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

Normally, Erwin Sikowitz's Advanced Acting Techniques class was a highlight of André Harris' day. But right now, his head simply wasn't in the game. Mulling over Tori – _dammit, I should be __**with**__ her, make sure she's okay_ – he barely listened to Sikowitz, who was currently delivering a post-mortem on the class' last production.

"I, for my part," the teacher bellowed, "was positively _overjoyed_ with the success of _Steamboat Suzie II: Attack of the Giant Barracudas_."

"I got my legs bitten off!" said Cat excitedly, clapping her hands.

"Indeed. You were a wonderful Victim #1, my dear. And kudos to Sinjin for his special-effects work. I don't believe I've ever seen such realistic-looking fake blood."

"Uh, yeah," said Sinjin, looking dodgily from side to side. " 'Fake'."

"But, alas," Sikowitz resumed, "Principal Dubois feels that Hollywood Arts should be focusing its energy on more _traditional_ theatrical productions." The class groaned. "Also, I felt it would be best to do something non-musical this time around, since our star vocalist has…um…has decided to take a break."

This was a charitable way of putting it. Neither Tori nor Jade had been formally suspended – since, as Lane put it, "this is a very stressful situation, and feelings are bound to run high" – but Lane had nonetheless made it _very_ clear that Tori was not to return to Hollywood Arts until she could better control her anger. It was probably for the best; Tori had no interest in performing right now anyway. But why (André thought with a surge of bitterness) had _Jade_ not been punished? It was her vicious insult that had sent Trina into a destructive spiral, yet here she was, in class as usual – and probably about to get the star role, too. _I bet she's __**overjoyed**__ Tori's not here. Less competition._

"So," Sikowitz continued, "I've decided that our end-of-year production will be…_Macbeth_."

The more theatrically savvy among the students gasped. "You're not supposed to say the name of…_that play_ out loud!" cried Robbie. "It's bad luck!"

"And you've got enough bad luck as it is with Robbie around," snarked Rex.

"Oh, hush, you two. Now, for the secondary roles in Mac…er….the Scottish Play, I'll be holding auditions at the end of the week, but I've already settled on our leads. Playing Macbeth will be…Beck Oliver!"

The students applauded heartily.

"And as Lady Macbeth…Jade West!"

Another round of applause, but much more subdued this time. André grimaced. _Of course._

But something was off. This was Jade's first lead role since Tori had come to Hollywood Arts, yet she seemed, not pleased, but upset – squirming in her seat, trying to hide her face with her hand.

Sikowitz launched into lecture mode, and the students steeled themselves for a long talk. As goofy a man as their teacher was, he knew his theatrical history backwards and forwards.

"Now, Shakespeare's titles can be misleading, and this play is no exception. Much as Brutus is the real protagonist of _Julius Caesar_, so here it's _Lady_ Macbeth who drives the action of the play. Ultimately, her husband is a fairly weak figure, who needs her Machiavellian drive in order to perform the ruthless acts necessary to gain the Scottish throne. Lady Macbeth is one of Shakespeare's greatest villains, and her ultimate breakdown under the weight of her guilty conscience is a _tour de force _for any actress who plays her…"

"I don't want to," said Jade softly.

Sikowitz stopped dead. "Beg pardon?"

"I don't want to. Play the part, I mean. Give it to somebody else. Cat. Whoever. I don't care."

"You're turning _down_ Lady Macbeth?" His face scrunched up. "Who are you, and what have you done with Jade West?"

The chuckles that arose in several corners of the room were quickly stilled by Jade's reply: "Don't you mock me, dammit! I don't want to play a conniving bitch!" And then, to André's amazement, she actually began to cry. "I don't want to _be_ a conniving bitch!"

Before Sikowitz could respond, Jade rose and fled from the room. A moment later, the thoroughly befuddled Beck and Cat ran after her.

"Um. Well." It was a rare sight indeed – Erwin Sikowitz completely at a loss for words. "I…I suppose it's almost time for the bell anyway. We'll discuss this further tomorrow. Class dismissed."

As the students shuffled out, whispering to one another about the bizarre scene they had just witnessed, André stayed in his seat, deep in thought. _ Jade West? Actually feeling __**remorse?**__ Maybe it's not just Trina – maybe the whole __**world **__is going mad._

No doubt he would have felt confirmed in this speculation if he had known that, at that very moment, Jade West was starting up her car and checking NorthStar for directions to the Seven Pines Psychiatric Hospital, current home of Trina Vega.


	7. Private Prisons

**A/N: Hmm. I had been aiming for this story to stay in accord with series continuity, but now in the aftermath of the Great Bade Breakup****, it seems that won't be possible. Oh well. Also, updates may be a little erratic for the foreseeable future due to work commitments. My apologies in advance.**

The only way she would ever accept her scars (thought Trina as she stared intently at her forearms) was if she imagined them as something other than what they were. They might be rivulets of flame, or forking bolts of lightning; or – she decided that a calmer image would be better – two great rivers, pursuing a single course until they divided into many branches at the deltas of her wrists.

Would they be permanent? She wondered. In the unlikely event she ever did become a big star, it would certainly be a formidable task for the makeup department to cover them up – but then it might be better if they remained. They would be a potent reminder of how low she had sunk, and why she must never again allow despair to get the better of her…

The tap on her shoulder startled her. She looked up, distinctly annoyed. "I thought group therapy didn't start until 2:00-"

But it wasn't an attendant or a physician. Smiling down at her was a boy not much older than she, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and an unruly mop of blond hair.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," he said in a soft baritone, "but I'm looking for a chess partner. Do you play?"

"Now and then," she replied. "But I'm not very good. You might want to look for someone who can actually give you a challenge." She was still wary of meeting people here; a charming exterior could easily mask a mind as troubled as…well, as troubled as her own. But she also realized that if she took no risks and avoided everyone, the loneliness would eat away at her like a cancer.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, winning or losing doesn't really matter to me. I'm just looking for somebody to talk to." He was warm and friendly, but she could sense the desperation at his core. It was a feeling she understood all too well.

"Sure, why not."

"Glad to hear it. I'm Adam."

"Trina." She rose, hurriedly drawing her sleeves down to her wrists, and followed him to the rec room.

The chess table was free, but Adam didn't sit down immediately. Instead, he circled the little table slowly counter-clockwise, counting under his breath: "five, six, seven, eight…", then stopped and circled the other direction, counting to eight again. He repeated the process, tapped the back of his chair twice with his left hand, twice with his right, and then sat down at last – only then realizing that Trina was gawking at him, her mouth open.

"It's not by choice," he said quietly. "I have obsessive-compulsive disorder. That's just one of the little rituals that I'm compelled to follow every day. Hell, I wound up here because my brain kept telling me to wash my hands a dozen times after every meal. My boss finally got wise when I kept taking two-hour lunch breaks and coming back with raw skin on my palms. He told me it was treatment or the unemployment line."

"Oh, God," Trina whispered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

"No need to apologize. Everybody does, the first time they see me act like this…and some of them"- his voice grew suddenly bitter – "stare every time after, too."

"I can't imagine what that must be like for you."

He sighed. "We're all in prisons of our own making, Trina. Mine just happens to be a little bit more…conspicuous than most others."

Without even knowing quite why she did so, she suddenly reached over the table and grabbed his forearms tightly, looking straight into his surprised eyes. "Is there ever a way out? Please, tell me there's a way out."

"…I'm not going to lie to you, Trina. This isn't my first time here, not by a long shot, and I've seen both success and failure. Some people turn their lives around. Others just throw in the towel and wallow in their own despair. But the ones who are hardest for me to bear – those are the ones who try, try so damn hard, to claw their way up out of the pit, and just when their fingers are on the edge, something gives way. The voices in their head get too loud, or their need to feel pain is too strong, and – they fall." He looked downward, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. "Maybe I'll be one of them, one day. Locked up in a padded cell, tapping the walls and counting my steps and looking over my shoulder and unable to function at all. That's my greatest fear" – His cheeks flushed. "And I've just shared it with a total stranger. Go me!"

"You can trust me," she said, and the tension in his muscles eased – slightly, but perceptibly. He again raised his head, and she saw something new in his eyes: relief, joy, and…affection?

_No. No no no no._ She shook her head furiously. Inside her a little voice began to chastise, a voice that sounded (oddly enough) like her mother: _Katrina Maria Vega! What on Earth is the matter with you? Have you really become so desperate to be loved that you imagine boys are hitting on you in a __**mental hospital?**_

She realized that he was watching her violent head-shaking with concern. "Did I upset you?" He asked. "Please, whatever I said that was out of turn, forgive me…"

"What? No! Don't be silly!" Even as she spoke, she winced inwardly at the falsely chipper tone to her voice. "Everything's peachy keen! How's about we play us some chess?"

"Okay," he said doubtfully. "White or black?"

"White."

They proved to be surprisingly evenly matched, and Trina soon found herself forgetting her anxieties in the pleasure of the game. Adam, for his part, was actually grinning. "I love chess," he explained. "The order, the logic – it's like mathematics in physical form. It's beautiful."

"I never thought of it that way," said Trina. It was true – the game was as orderly, as refined and elegant, as a two-person dance. Just Adam and her, alone on the floor, a Viennese waltz playing, her blue gown sweeping about as she spun…

A faint sound of yelling drifted into the rec room. This wasn't unprecedented – patients often broke into fits of anger here – and Trina took little notice at first, absorbed in her fantasy; but then she realized that the cries were coming from beyond the front door of the ward. And the voice seemed familiar…

"I have to see her! It's important!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but only family members are allowed to visit Ms. Vega at this time…"

Trina's ears pricked up at the sound of her name.

"Don't you understand? It's my fault she's in here! It's all my fault!"

The rook she had just lifted fell from her fingers onto the table and rolled onto the floor. _It __**can't **__be. There's no way in hell __**she'd **__come here…_

Two more voices joined the fracas. "Babe, you're not being sensible. Come on back to the car." "Beck's right. You should listen to…ooh! A jar of peppermints! YAY PEPPERMINTS!"

Trina clapped her palm to her face.

Dr. Courtland approached, hesitant, clearly embarrassed. "Trina? I'm sorry to disturb your game, but you have a visitor."

"Yeah," she muttered. "I noticed."

"Would you like to see her? Normally we wouldn't permit it, but she seems awfully…er…insistent."

Trina sighed. "Why does that not surprise me?"

She really had no desire to face Jade West at this moment in time. But if experience had taught her anything, it was that the snarky Goth would never rest until she got what she wanted.

"Rain check?" She asked Adam.

"Any time."

His smile gave her a sudden flush of courage. She turned back to Dr. Courtland. "I'll see Jade now."


	8. Amends

**A/N: Behold my solution to the problem of "The Worst Couple": An alternate history!**

**Disclaimer: as ever, don't own.**

Jade West had seen a therapist or two in her time. An _angry_ therapist, however, was something quite new, and not very pleasant at that.

"Ms. Vega has graciously agreed to see you, but I am not as forgiving as she," the middle-aged blond woman hissed. "You have ten minutes, Ms. West, and that is all. After this, you will _not_ return unless Ms. Vega _specifically_ requests your presence. Is that understood?"

"Fine, fine – whatever you say. Ten minutes is all I need anyway."

Jade put on a defiant face, but in fact, she was beginning to wonder for the first time whether coming here had been a wise decision. She almost wished she had taken Sinjin up on his offer to appear on "Queries for Couples"; the poor kid was so desperate to make his game show a success that he had hired the Northridge girl who once stole his watch at the Karaoke-Dokie as his "Query Girl".

She disliked the place the moment she stepped inside. So calm and sterile, stripped of anything that might excite the emotions – Jade thought she might suffocate. _What in God's name am I doing, anyway? Jade West doesn't apologize! It's not __**my**__ fault that Trina's psyche is as fragile as glass, is it? Talk about a fool's errand…_

But her inner monologue was silenced the moment she saw Trina. The elder Vega, in a shapeless gray sweater and sweat pants, with no makeup at all, sat in a little chair of steel and yellow plastic. A bulge in her sleeves was so slight that the casual observer would have missed it, but Jade immediately realized what it meant: bandages. She was slumped slightly forward, watching Jade with what seemed to be a complex and ever-changing mixture of apprehension, anger, and – to Jade's surprise and disgust – pity. _What the hell is__** that**__ about? What reason does she have to feel sorry for __**me? **__**She's**__ the one locked up in loony-land!_

The therapist pulled up a chair for Jade, then turned on her heel and left, whispering in the Goth's ear as she passed: "_Ten. Minutes._"

Uneasily, Jade sat. Looking at Trina, she wished she had prepared a speech during the hurried drive over here; right now words were failing her utterly.

Fortunately, Trina spoke first. "I gotta say, you are _not _the person I would have expected to stop by."

"It's…kind of a surprise to me, too. I mean, it's not that I meant to ignore you, but places like this…they give me the creeps, you know? All the weirdos and…" As she realized what she had just said, she flushed and looked away. "No offense."

"None taken," said Trina dryly. "So what changed your mind?"

"…It's not important. Something really silly, honestly. I...I don't exactly know why I'm here to begin with. But I guess since I'm here, I should tell you that…that…um…that you're not ugly," Jade blurted out. _Well, __**that**__ sounded incredibly stupid._ She cringed.

Trina raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, I think."

"I mean…that day…the day when you…"

"Tried to kill myself? You don't have to tiptoe around it, Jade."

She breathed a small sigh of relief. "Yeah, okay. It's just that what I said, about your shoes taking the attention away from your face…it wasn't fair. I don't even know why I said it, really."

"It's pretty much a reflex with you, isn't it?"

"I…" It annoyed Jade to hear those words out loud, but it wasn't as if she'd never thought of it that way herself. She slumped back in her chair. "Yeah. You noticed."

Trina nodded. "I'm not as dumb as people make me out to be, Jade. I pay attention to how people act. And particularly to how they act around me. Too _much_ attention, really – that's why I'm here."

"No," responded Jade vehemently. "You're here because I was thoughtless and cruel."

"Look, Jade," said the elder Vega with a sigh, "I'm not going to deny that what you said hurt me. A lot. But the truth of it is, I have a mental disorder. Looking back, I've probably had it for years. There were warning signs before, plenty of them, but I didn't pay attention until…until it was almost too late. I was a bomb waiting to go off, and you just happened to be the one to light the fuse."

"But does that really excuse what I did?" Jade asked. "I feel like…there's got to be something I need to do, something to make up for it."

Trina studied her thoughtfully for a moment. "Why did you really come here, Jade?"

"I told you I don't know!"

"I think I do. You want absolution, don't you? You feel a burden on your shoulders, and you're hoping that if I forgive you, it'll be lifted."

The truth of Trina's words stung Jade like a whip. "I…I don't expect you to. I don't deserve it."

Trina leaned over to her and spoke softly. "Listen to me, Jade. I _do_ forgive you. But if you really feel that you need to do some kind of 'penance', then there is one thing you can do for me."

"Anything," whispered Jade. "Name it."

"Forgive yourself."

Jade opened her mouth to reply, but a sob in her throat strangled the words. She began to shake, tried to fight back the oncoming tears, failed. At last she collapsed, weeping, into Trina's arms; and through her tear-blurred eyes, she could just barely see that the other girl was crying too.


	9. Collateral Damage

**A/N: My apologies for the long time between updates. My inspiration for this story is flagging at the moment, to be perfectly frank, but I'll keep it going if I can.**

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

As Tori stared out her living room window into the fast-gathering twilight, her thoughts drifted toward school. She had missed nearly a week now, and neglected the homework that was piling up on her desk; neither André's gentle encouragement nor her parents' increasingly unsubtle prodding could convince her that it was worth doing. The science fair, she remembered now, was fast approaching, and she hadn't yet even chosen a topic, though Cat kept trying to persuade her to help design some sort of hamster-powered robot (what a ridiculous idea!)

André was noodling about on the piano, working, as ever, on a new song. He was still (much to Tori's amusement) trapped in that awkward phase in which nothing could come to his lips except nonsense; in a few minutes he would give up, throw up his hands in despair, cry "I'll never be a good songwriter!", then, immediately, be struck with inspiration and write a masterpiece. It was a sequence as regular as clockwork.

"I don't think that me and you / Have anything to do / With…um…with a hundred-dollar shoe / Filled with Crazy Glue…_dang_ it!" His forehead struck a jarring chord as he slumped onto the keys. "Maybe I should listen to Grandma and become an actuary after all."

For the first time in quite a while, Tori actually chuckled. "Hang in there, 'Dre. You'll get it."

André gave a heavy sigh. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom? Maybe splashing cold water in my face will get my brain working."

"Sure, go right ahead." Watching him dragging his weary feet up the stairs, Tori thought of the many times his presence had been the only thing standing between her and complete despair. When she had decided to leave Hollywood Arts on her very first day, he talked her out of it; when she was nearly kicked out of school by mistake, he stood by her; and when she found Trina in the bathtub that horrible, horrible day… Tori wanted to believe that she could have handled the situation by herself, but if André hadn't been there to help – well. It was best not to let her thoughts veer off in that direction.

André's PearPhone, which he had left atop the piano, began to ring. Tori knew that the ringtone – "Eye of the Tiger" – meant that it was his grandmother. She also knew that the call might well be urgent, but she didn't like to answer André's phone for him; as she had learned once before the hard way, André's grandma reacted…_poorly_ to hearing any voice but her grandson's.

When, after almost thirty seconds of ringing, André had yet to appear, Tori roused herself from the sofa, went to the foot of the stairs, and yelled up: " 'Dré! Your grandma's calling! 'Dré?"

No answer.

"André! Did you hear me? Are you alright up there?"

Still no answer.

And suddenly, Tori Vega was overwhelmed by memories. As vividly as if it were happening right at that moment, she saw again the slippery pool of blood at the bathtub's edge, heard the moans of pain and despair, felt the rapidly chilling flesh of a dying person beneath her fingertips.

But the face of that dying person, as it materialized in her mind's eye, flickered back and forth. At one moment, it was her sister; at the next, André.

"NO!" she screamed, and hurried, stumbling, unseeing, up the stairs. She lowered a shoulder and, with all the force her thin body could muster, crashed into the heavy bathroom door to force it open.

But it was unlocked, and she went sprawling. Dazed, she looked up into the face of an utterly bewildered André. Her ears filled with a mighty rushing sound, which, it took her a moment to realize, was the running faucet, turned on to its fullest extent.

_He couldn't hear. He couldn't hear the phone, or me. That's all. That's all it was._

_What in the hell is the __**matter**__ with me?_

André stooped and helped Tori to her feet. "Are you okay, _muchacha_? You're not hurt, are you?"

"No. No, I'm fine. I just…your grandma's on the phone, and you didn't come when I called, and…I thought that…I thought…"

_Why? Why would I think Andr__é__ would hurt himself? Why would I think that he would want to..._

_Leave me._

"No," she whispered. "Don't leave me, André. Please don't."

His eyes widened. "Why in God's name would I ever do that?"

"I'm just…I can't…ever since that day…dreams…nightmares…fears…I think that behind every door, around every corner, I'm going to stumble on the bleeding body of someone I care about, someone I love…"

Despite himself, a quiet thrill went through André's heart as he realized the implications of those last three words.

"Tori," he said softly. "Have you ever talked to anybody? I mean anybody who's…you know…trained to deal with this kind of thing?"

"I don't need professional help, 'Dré. I have to be there for Trina, for Mom and Dad. I have to be the strong one now…have to be…" A nascent sob caught in the back of her throat. "…Have to be strong…"

"And you think seeking help makes you weak?"

"I…I guess not, but…Trina needs me…"

"Tori," he said, suddenly deathly serious. "Do you really think that your sister wants you to suffer for her sake?"

"No…"

"Then talk to someone. Don't let the anxiety eat you away inside. Will you promise me you'll do that?"

Unable to speak, she nodded. He pulled her close and gently kissed her forehead.

After a long embrace, she looked up into his rich brown eyes. "Why are you so good to me, André?" She whispered.

"Because," he said softly, "you deserve it."

The last of the evening light waned and died, casting into deep shadow the two figures, their arms still intertwined.


	10. Valley of the Shadow

**Disclaimer: don't own.**

"Progress". The word was something of a mantra here; there were, Dr. Courtland reminded her patients often, no "miracle cures" in psychiatry, but so long as they were taking steps forward – however small – then they had hope.

But Trina had found progress to be a slippery thing to measure. Physically, she could feel the pain of her wounds diminishing into a dull, throbbing ache that bothered her only when she sought to fall asleep; but mentally, emotionally, spiritually – there she was less sure.

She knew that she was opening up to people. There were daily chess games with Adam, movie nights in the rec room, and heart-to-hearts with Dr. Courtland. Yet still there hovered beneath the surface her suspicion that everyone was studying her, quietly judging her, and that one day they would turn on her and pronounce her a failure. And if that happened, she knew she would fall again into the pit, and this time there would be no climbing back out.

Matters came to a head with the arrival of a new patient. She was called Meredith – a petite, freckled redhead, somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five years old, with a snub nose and piercing green eyes. At first she spoke little; her fellow patients made the usual overtures of friendship, but she responded only by nodding ever so slightly, while curling the corners of her lips into a smile that had an odd sense of falsehood about it. It was as if she were some sort of robot trying, with only limited success, to imitate human emotions. And, much to Trina's discomfort, she never blinked. Not once. Trina couldn't help but notice that Dr. Courtland and the orderlies kept a particularly close eye on Meredith; they tensed up automatically and exchanged glances whenever she entered a room, as if expecting trouble.

The discomfiture among the other patients was palpable at the next group therapy session. Even the ever-talkative Frank seemed reluctant to share when transfixed by Meredith's unwavering stare. Trina groaned inwardly when her turn came around.

"Trina," said Dr. Courtland, smiling as usual but keeping one eye on the redheaded newcomer, "Why don't you tell us something you love to do?"

She shifted in her seat nervously. "Um…well…I love to shop, naturally. And trying on clothes – that's always a blast. And flirting, of course…"

"Anything else?"

"That's…that's about it." But even as Trina spoke, she knew that Dr. Courtland saw through her lie.

"Remember, Trina, you don't have to hide anything here," said the psychiatrist softly.

"I…."

_Word of advice, kiddo. Give up singing and find a career more suited to your talents._

"I enjoy…"

_Like dishwashing, say, or janitorial work._

"I…I can't…I'm sorry…"

"I believe in you, Trina," said Dr. Courtland.

"So do I," said Frank.

"Me too," said Adam.

_You know what? To __**hell**__ with fear._

"I love to sing!" she cried. "More than anything, anything in the world."

Everyone in the circle smiled.

"It gives you joy," said Dr. Courtland. "Am I right?"

"Yes, God yes. It's so freeing."

For the first time since she had arrived, Meredith spoke. "Why don't you sing for us now?"

"Could I?" Trina asked Dr. Courtland, beaming. But the psychiatrist was looking, not at her, but at Meredith – studying the newcomer's impassive face warily.

"Doctor? Could I?" Trina said again.

"Hm? Why, yes. Yes, of course you may, if you'd like."

She stood, feeling herself bathed in an imaginary limelight. "All I want is everything, yes everything, too much is not enough! I'm sick of settling for in between, and I'm not giving up! AS LONG AS IT FEELS RIGHT, AT LEAST WE KNOW…"

"Dr. Courtland," murmured Meredith, "Could you please stop whoever's strangling that poor cat?"

Trina froze. "What?"

"Oh, my mistake. That was your attempt at singing." Meredith's tone never changed; there was no inflection in her voice or movement in her face as she spoke. "It's a wonder you ever felt the need to commit suicide. If you were that eager to die, surely your listeners would have been happy to oblige you."

There was a roar of disapproval. Adam leaped out of his seat, a vein in his forehead bulging; only Frank's hand on his shoulder kept him from leaping upon the newcomer.

"Meredith, stop it," snapped Dr. Courtland. "This is no place for that sort of behavior, and you know it."

"Still working out the rage over your divorce?" responded the redhead placidly. "I see the tan line on your ring finger; no more wedding band, huh? Did he get tired of listening to you asking him how he felt every day? Or did he decide to trade up for a woman a little less baggy around the eyes and saggy around the – well, you know," and she nodded at Dr. Courtland's chest.

"That is ENOUGH!" the psychiatrist yelled.

"Why don't you cram it, you soulless b-" Adam began.

"You seem distraught," said Meredith. "Perhaps you should go wash your hands a few hundred times to calm down? After all, I'm told that skin calluses are considered _incredibly_ sexy in certain circles."

Adam sank back slowly into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

"I knew it," hissed Courtland. "I _knew_ that bringing you here was a mistake. You're going to the lockdown wing. Now."

For the first time, Meredith's composure broke. Her fingers tightened into claws.

"How dare you presume to order _me_ around. You worthless _insect_. I'll tear your fucking _**HEART**_ out-"

With a quick gesture from Courtland, three orderlies seized the struggling Meredith by the arms. They dragged her away, ignoring her banshee-like screams and violent flailing.

The remaining members of the group stared at one another, too shocked to speak.

"I'm truly sorry," said Dr. Courtland at last. "Meredith…Meredith suffers from both sociopathic personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder. She's extremely intelligent, and she has considerable skill at finding and exploiting others' insecurities. I had hoped that a less restrictive treatment environment might help her learn healthy social interactions, but clearly that was a colossal error in judgment on my part. Please forgive me. Adam. T-Trina." She fell silent as a single tear formed at the corner of her eye.

Adam, rubbing his hands together madly, murmured "Not your fault…three…four…five…you don't need to apologize…six…seven…eight…please, God, help me…"

Temporarily suppressing her own pain, Trina knelt before him, took gentle hold of his hands, and pulled them apart. "No, don't, please! I have to keep going!" he cried.

"Don't let the things she said control you, Adam," Trina whispered. "She can only have power over us if we let her."

"If…if we let…" He stopped. "You're right. You're absolutely right. Thank you." She released his hands, and, after a moment, he let them fall into his lap.

"You're a wise woman, Trina Vega," he whispered as she rose. "Don't ever let anybody tell you otherwise."

Even as she smiled at him, Trina felt herself overcome by a great wave of weariness. Meredith's words still rang in her ears, and she felt as if her heart had been torn in two. "Would you mind if I go lie down, Dr. Courtland?" she asked.

"Of course not. Take as long a rest as you need."

She turned to go, but halted in her tracks when she heard Adam say quietly: "You know, you never finished that song."

Stunned, she spun back around and studied the other group members' faces. "Do you guys…do you really want me to finish?"

They nodded.

Trina hesitated only a moment before the dream-spotlight fell on her again. "AS LONG AS IT FEELS RIGHT, AT LEAST WE KNOW THAT WE'RE ALIVE! All I want is everything, yes everything, whoa oh…"

Her voice died away. _Oh, my God, that was __**so**__ far off key. I ought to be ashamed of myself._

Adam began to applaud slowly. A few moments later, so did Frank. Then, to Trina's amazement, Dr. Courtland joined in. Suddenly the dam broke, and everyone was raucously clapping, cheering, whistling.

It all became clear to her at that moment.

_I'm never going to be a great singer._

_And you know what? It doesn't matter. Not one bit. I'm gonna keep on singing until my throat is sore, all the days of my life._

And with that, Trina Vega was no longer standing in the cold glow of the spotlight, but in the warmth of the springtime sun.


	11. All Fall Down

**A/N: Yeah, I know this is pretty lousy, but I have a nasty habit of leaving stories unfinished, and I'm trying my level best to avert it with this one.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

"What do you mean, he's _gone_?"

For the first time in weeks, Trina felt sure she was going to cry.

"I understand you're upset," Dr. Courtland replied in a warmly sympathetic tone. "But patients do come and go. Adam has a job to get back to, and he couldn't afford to miss any more time. Besides, his OCD symptoms have diminished significantly – thanks in no small part to the emotional support he got from you."

"But – but he should have said something. He should have told me he was leaving." Now the hot tears came. "I _need_ him, dammit! I can't do this by myself!"

The psychiatrist looked into her eyes. "Do you _really_ believe that, Trina? Remember that all this started because you felt you needed other people to define your self-worth."

"You don't understand! I've never met anyone before who liked me for me! He didn't care whether I could sing better than my sister, or how fancy my clothes were! It was…it was so nice…"

"I know. But think about what you've learned from meeting him. Now you know that everyone _isn't _silently judging you every moment of the day. You don't have to live with that fear anymore." She smiled at Trina. "Tell me that doesn't feel like a weight off your back, knowing that."

"Maybe I'll see it that way, someday…but not now. Now it just feels like there's a great big boot pushing my face down into the mud."

Even though she knew she mustn't, Dr. Courtland had a sudden urge to hug the broken girl. She realized, to her amazement, that she, too, was angry with Adam. Trina had been making such good progress – what was he thinking, leaving her in the lurch? He must have known what would happen.

"Listen, you need a distraction. How about a good game of charades? There are several patients in the common room who I know would love to play. Frank's there."

Trina managed a small smile. She liked Frank; he reminded her of her father. "All right. Just let me clean myself up."

On her way down the hall to the washroom, she passed by what had been Adam's room. It was empty now; he had left in the middle of the night, and no new patient had yet been checked in to claim the space.

With his clothes and suitcases gone, the room was utterly lifeless. The only evidence he had ever set foot there was a sheet of paper neatly folded atop the writing desk.

Knowing she shouldn't, she picked it up, opened it – and gasped when she saw her name.

_Dear Trina:_

_ I'm sorry that it has to be this way. I wish I had the courage to say these things to you personally. But I'm a bit of a coward, when you come down to it; and I suppose I always will be._

_ The way I feel towards you – well, I don't think I've ever quite felt that way about anyone before. I wanted to tell you – God, you have no idea how many times I almost blurted it out – but given where we are, and how vulnerable we both are right now, I couldn't risk it; I didn't want either of us to get hurt. So here I am, slinking off in the night, with my heart full of pain. Please forgive me. Perhaps, one day, when circumstances are different, we'll see each other again._

_ Farewell, my dearest._

_ A._

The neat loops and dots of blue ink began to smear and smudge as Trina's tears fell on them. "How could you do this to me?" she whispered as she slid slowly to the floor.

Laughter drifted toward her from the common room. "Hey, Trina!" Frank called in his friendly, tobacco-roughened voice. "Where'd you get to? C'mon in here!"

But she had lost the strength to get up.


	12. Crossroads

**A/N: As God is my witness, I **_**will**_** finish this story. Also, I'll never be hungry again. (I wonder how many of the people reading this will get that reference…)**

**Disclaimer: I own neither**_** Victorious**_** nor **_**The Dark Night of the Soul**_**.**

Trina curled into a little ball and put her head between her legs. She shut her eyes and put her fingers in her ears, as if she were four years old again; and she began to whisper to herself: "Go away, world…go away…leave me alone…"

_But do I really __**want **__to be alone?_

She thought of Tori, who might sometimes roll her eyes in embarrassment at having so self-obsessed a sister, but had never failed to help her when the chips were down. She thought of Jade, who disguised a wounded soul with a vicious tongue, and had bared that soul to Trina, seeking forgiveness. Dr. Courtland, who had turned everything Trina ever thought about "cold, clinical shrinks" on its head. Frank, who had taught her that no, suffering from a mental illness didn't mean you were forever barred from forming real friendships and caring about others. And then there was Adam…

_This isn't what he would want,_ she realized with a shock. _He hasn't abandoned me – he did this because he __**cares **__about me. And if he saw me the way I am right now, it would tear his heart in two._

Trina opened her eyes. The room had stopped spinning. Frank was still calling her, his affability now shot through with an undercurrent of worry: "Trina? You doin' okay there? Still got a spot at the table, if you're interested in a little five-card stud! Course, we're just playin' for sticks of gum…Trina?"

"I'm…" The first utterance came out as a hoarse whisper. She summoned up all her strength, tried again; successfully called out, "I'm fine. Be there in just a minute."

Even down the hall, she swore she could hear a sigh of relief when he answered: "Well, hurry up, darlin'. We're all waitin'."

/

After dinner, her stomach blissfully full of spinach lasagna (and richer by five sticks of Spearmint), she pulled from her bag one of the books her parents had brought her – _The Dark Night of the Soul_, by St. John of the Cross – and stretched out on her cot to read.

"On a dark night, kindled in love with yearnings – oh, happy chance!

I went forth without being observed, my house being now at rest.

In darkness and secure, by the secret ladder, disguised – oh, happy chance!

In darkness and concealment, my house being now at rest…"

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" she called, not taking her eyes from the page.

Dr. Courtland stood over her. "Do you mind if we talk for a second?"

Despite herself, Trina sighed. "No offense, Doctor, but I'm not really in the mood for another session. It's been a very draining day, and-"

"I'm not here to 'pick your brain', Trina." There was a radiant smile on the psychiatrist's face. "In fact, I think it may be time for you to go home."

Trina sat bolt upright. "Are you kidding me?"

"No," said Dr. Courtland with a chuckle, "I'm most certainly not. The way you reacted today to what could have been a terribly derailing incident shows me that you're much stronger than you were when you arrived here – more self-confident, less impetuous. And I have absolutely no worry that you're a danger to yourself or others at this point. So, why don't we get you back to your family?"

"I would love…" Suddenly, she hesitated.

"Trina? What's the matter?"

"I don't know…it's just…I've been wanting this for so long, and now…oh, God, I don't _believe_ this –"

"You know you can tell me anything, Trina."

She took a deep breath. "…I'm a little scared. I mean, this place is safe. I feel at home here. I know it sounds completely crazy, but I don't know if I want to have to face all the chaos out there in the 'real world' right now. I mean, what if I have another relapse?"

"Do you really think that you will?"

"I…no. No, I honestly don't." Trina's cheeks flushed. "Now you probably _really_ think I'm nuts, after hearing me say all that."

"Trina, it's perfectly natural to feel that way – common, too. Frankly, I probably would have been a little surprised if you _hadn't_ expressed any anxiety about leaving." The psychiatrist knelt to look her in the eye. "I would never tell you that you have to go if you didn't feel comfortable about it. The decision is entirely up to you."

Trina thought for a long moment – harder than she had ever thought about anything before. And then the tears appeared at the corners of her eyes – tears not of pain, this time, but of joy.

"How's about we give my mom and dad a call and give them the news?" She whispered.

And now that Trina Vega was officially no longer her patient, Dr. Courtland wrapped her in a great big hug.


	13. Epilogue: Do You Believe

**Ha! I TOLD you I'd finish this blasted story! Hooray for sudden bursts of inspiration!**

**Disclaimer: As ever, don't own.**

_Two weeks later_

He is alone in the furniture shop – his boss won't arrive until the afternoon. He really should be minding the counter in case a customer arrives, but no one ever comes so early in the day. So instead, he secludes himself in the back room – his workshop. His sanctuary.

As he shuts down the lathe after turning a table leg, he glances over his shoulder at the chessboards set up in a neat row on the table nearby. Right now he has three games-by-mail going at once, and he is winning two.

But there's only one person he really wants to play against right now.

"Do you believe in fate?" she had once asked him, as they sat by the common-room window and looked out at the stars. "I mean, do you believe that, if things are _meant_ to happen, they'll find a way to happen, no matter what we do or don't do?"

He had no answer then, and he still doesn't have one now.

With a sigh, he turns back to his work. Again and again he slides the plane over the wooden beam, crafting what will be the armrest of a rocking chair. Shavings of pine fall at his feet, noiselessly, like snow.

People who don't know him well are often surprised that someone so cerebral would work at a job like this. But he loves it – using his hands, transforming raw wood into beautiful furniture. It's a perfect fit.

So why does it no longer content him the way it once did?

The bell over the front door tinkles. _Of course. The one day I have time to myself, a customer has to show up._ He groans, brushes the dust from his hands, and opens the door into the shop.

"Hey, I'm so sorry to bother you, but my car broke down outside, and I…"

They both stand as still as stone.

"Oh my God," she breathes.

"Hello, Trina," he whispers. Immediately the thousand voices of anxiety begin their cacophony in his mind. _What if she hates you for what you did? What if she turns on her heel and runs off? What if she curses the day you were born?_

For a long – agonizingly long – second, there is no readable expression on her face. Then, she breaks into a broad smile. She runs to him, embraces him tightly, ignoring his dirty apron pressing against her thousand-dollar outfit.

_Do you believe in fate?_

For Adam Winter, at this moment in time, the answer is yes.


End file.
